Abandoned (or not).

I love rummaging through abandoned places. Back in the day, my best-friends and I would search Central Oregon far and wide for eerie, deserted, buildings. Along the way we tapped into movie theaters, mills, houses, rock quarries, you name it. All in the name of adventure. These days, when I find myself poking around in a forsaken structure, it's exactly how I remember it nearly a decade ago: scary as hell.

Today was no different.

After a pleasant drive through secret nooks and crannies of the Pacific Northwest, my love and our favorite soul mate happened across one very dilapidated, two-story, farm house. It took all of 30 seconds to decide who was going in and who was staying. Game on. 

Once we walked up three of the surviving six stairs and across an old door used as a bridge over the rotting porch, we entered one sinister piece of property. Decaying doesn't even do the place justice. It had all of the familiar sights I have come to expect from unoccupied premises: busted windows, graffiti, smashed bottles, exposed beams, trash, broken porcelain, and that feeling. We poked around for 5 minutes or so and as we were about to leave, I said aloud, "Where are the stairs?" If it wasn't for this innocent moment of curiosity, our day would have been a lot less disturbing. 

"Maybe behind that door in the kitchen?"

"Let's check it out."

Sure enough, that closed door in the kitchen led us up the stairs, through the darkest of attics,  and into one of the creepiest scenes I have ever scene with my own two eyes. 

A small bed, partially made, definitely slept in and well used, was tucked in the corner of what can only be described as a nauseating setting. A children's backpack strewn on the ground. A dozen 2-litre bottles filled with black sludge lined the floors and hung from twine on the walls (what was that anyway?). A hundred discarded string cheese wrappers. An old 1960's tube television. Another mattress or two over the windows for protection from the elements, or inquiring minds. And a plastic Safeway bag, dangling from the wall. 

"Mark, we need to get out of here. Now."

Say no more sister! 

Hours later, I'm sitting here by myself, arm hair raised, replaying the events in my head. Something tells me that we weren't alone in that putrid piece of shit. The way the bed was made. It seemed as though somebody had heard us come in and had thrown the sheets off in a hurry to hide. The door from the kitchen was closed for a reason. Privacy. 

That one little hallway in the attic was pitch, pitch, black. 

He was right there. 

Breathing down our necks.